Co misery
by Crimson White
Summary: Stuck in England, Peter wallows in his memories. Sometimes misery is best shared.


Characters are not mine. I'm just borrowing for a while.

Hope you enjoy.

Crimson.

.....................................................................................................................................................

Peter Pevensie lay on his single bed, in his bland room, in his tiny house, in Finchley, in England.

It was all _wrong._

The ceiling was too low, the sheets really _were _scratchy, there was no sweet breeze fluttering his scarlet curtains, even the _smell_ was different.

And it wasn't just the room.

It was him as well.

His chest was small, his shoulders no longer broad. There were absent muscles, he felt weak, useless. His hands were smaller; he was at least three heads shorter. At times he even reached up to rub his chin in thought and was startled to find the smooth baby like skin there, instead of his usual bristle of stubble.

There were things missing, spaces which were unfulfilled. Rhindon was absent from his hip. His crown was absent from his head. He gripped his hands tightly. He felt only skin against skin. The ring with the family crest was missing from his finger.

He even _sounded_ strange.

He had locked the bathroom door and spent an hour in there whispering to himself. How strange to have a voice so childlike and high pitched once again! Even his laugh was different. It was no longer deep and resonant, only a reedy chuckle.

He missed the scars most of all. Not their mark upon his body, but the sacrifice and memories they represented.

He lay there, tracing a spot on his stomach where a lance had once pierced the skin. He had dove in front of Edmund to receive that one. _The last remnants of Jadis's army._

There, on that pale spot of unblemished skin on his shoulder – that arm had nearly been amputated – he'd got that sliced open dashing to throw himself in front of Lucy. _The liberation of Terebinthia._

The empty space above his heart – he'd taken an arrow meant for Susan. _The first suitor who tried to wage war against their country after his sister's marriage refusal._

He blinked; it was hard to focus, lying in the increasingly dark room. It was strange, but it was as if his senses themselves were dulled in this place. His mind struggled to compare. Everything was clearer back then, everything was sharper. Like he'd taken in more, heard more, touched more, tasted more. Here, it was just bland.

There was a rap on the door. He realised that he had no idea who it was. He used to be able to tell apart his siblings simply by their mere presence. Now he couldn't even distinguish a knock. The door creaked open, letting in the light from the hallway.

It was Susan.

"Peter?" She squinted into the darkness.

"Here." He replied, inwardly wincing at his voice.

She slipped into the room and shut the door behind her, groping in the dark to find the bed where he lay. He didn't move when her fingers patted him on the chest, trying to figure out where he was positioned. He didn't move when she lay down next to him and curled into his side. They were silent for a long time.

"Mum's worried about you." She said.

"What'd you tell her was wrong with me?"

"You were worried about dad."

Peter felt surge of guilt. He'd been so caught up in his own mess that he hadn't even thought of his father. But really, he hadn't needed a father in a long time. Indeed, he had basically _been_ a father to his siblings. He wondered what would happen when his father returned home.

Susan sighed and buried her nose into his arm. "You smell different." She said quietly.

"What?"

"You smell different – from what you smelt like _there_." She inhaled deeply again. "You smell like washing powder and smoke from outside and starch."

Peter contemplated this. "What did I smell like – there?"

"In summer –fresh air and wood and metal, from the training grounds. In winter – warm cinnamon. Remember you used to drink it in your study at night?"

His stomach growled at the memory of the familiar taste. "Yeah, yeah I remember."

"I always preferred the roselily tea." Susan mused.

"I know. Ed liked the spiced tea from Calormene. Lucy always preferred the honey tea from the Western Woods."

She sighed again. "Well we're stuck with good old English tea now."

Peter made a face in the dark. "Is it just me or is everything - bland –?"

Susan shook her head. "No, it's not just you. My clothes are scratchy and I'm sick of wearing grey. The sky in never blue, the buildings are covered in filth, the birds don't sing, the trees don't dance. There are no fauns hiding in the woods – perhaps because there are no woods! The skies are empty of griffins; I haven't seen a wild animal since we got here. The food is so full of preservatives that my stomach curls at the smell. The water is so full of chemicals that I've almost forgotten what pure water really tastes like. It _can't_ be good for you."

"And the sun –" Peter trailed off.

"The sun doesn't compare to His brilliance." Susan finished for him.

In their silence they could vaguely hear their mother laughing in the kitchen at something on the radio.

"What do you miss most? Besides Aslan." He asked her curiously.

She hesitated. "You promise not to laugh?"

"Why?"

"Seriously, it's entirely vain of me and everything – but –" Peter felt her shift beside him, her hand rising to brush through her shoulder length hair.

"Your –hair?" he guessed.

Her breath left her in a rush. "It's stupid and silly and ridiculous, but when I brushed it this morning - my hand kept going, I was brushing empty space. It upset me that there was nothing there."

"'Salright." He said to her. "I miss my beard."

Susan snorted. "You never had a beard."

"My _stubble_ then. It's absolutely ridiculous that I have this soft little chin with not a hint of a hair."

They were quiet again, contemplating their memories.

"My Bow." She said.

"My Sword." He agreed.

"I feel –"

"Useless? Defenceless?"

"All of the above."

There was a thud from downstairs, then abruptly, Lucy was yelling and Edmund was arguing.

"_Us."_ He sighed.

"What?" she twisted to look up at him, even though it was too dark to see.

"I miss us – the little unit we were, how we used to _get_ each other."

"They never used to fight at stupid things." She agreed. "Ed was always so receptive to her."

"She adored him; remember when he taught her to use a sword?"

"It'll get better. They'll forgive each other easily." Susan said decisively.

"How do you know?"

"Because I don't think we can do this by ourselves."

It rang true. He reached down and squeezed her hand.

"Thanks for coming up and seeing me."

He felt her shrug. "It's always better to wallow in misery with someone else."

"A commiserator."

"Yep."

He stared at the lump that was Susan in the dark.

"You're hair will grow back – eventually."

She snorted with laughter. "Thanks, your beard will appear again too."

He sighed. "Gotta go through puberty first."

"Bummer." Susan replied, a giggle catching in her throat.

Peter grunted in agreement. "Isn't once enough?"

"'Least this time a whole country isn't watching you, if it's any consolation."

He was silent a moment.

"Not really."

"Yeah." She sighed. "I know."

.....................................................................................................................................................


End file.
